


Jörmungandr Stirs

by rightsidethru



Series: The Child of Frost and Flame [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (Not this year though. ;D), Alternate Magic Canon, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Magic, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Most years Peter totally wins the jackpot., Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Professor!Peter Hale, Sixth Year!Stiles, Slytherin!Stiles, Steter - Freeform, The Hogwarts professors totally place bets on which students end up in which Houses., This is my theory and I'm sticking to it., Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, mentions of canon Harry Potter characters (though they take a background role).
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 23:51:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11885481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: Stiles and his father had only been in Britain a few short weeks before the newly-transferred Auror was seeing his son off on Platform 9  3/4 to spend his sixth year as a student at Hogwarts.(aka: The journey on the Hogwarts Express and Stiles' Sorting Ceremony at the end of the night.)





	Jörmungandr Stirs

**Author's Note:**

> Despite having what seems like a million projects going on and things I'm writing for... I sucked myself into this particular 'verse. XD;; So you guys will definitely get more stories that will be posted to this series. I don't know how often I'll be able to update, especially considering everything else on the plate, but... I've got myself hooked. :P
> 
> If anyone ever feels chatty, you can find my Tumblr over [here](http://rightsidethru.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I have the next couple of stories already planned out (...mentally, anyway...), but if you think something would be fitting, want to discuss ideas, have questions, etc., feel free to drop a comment or toss an Ask my way over at the Tumblr. <3
> 
> *On a side note, I'm fully aware that Arithmancy in HP canon is a scientific, precise form of divination. However, I've always been fond of fanon's interpretation of it being a foundation for spell creation and warding. Since the series is labeled as Alternate Magic Canon, I'm going the fanon route.
> 
> **
> 
>  **Timeline :** Almost immediately before [Mantle of Green & Crown of Silver](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11836782)

_Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it._  
\- Terry Pratchett

++

“It’ll be fine, kiddo.”

Noah Stilinski’s hand was a heavy weight upon Stiles’ shoulder and, equally heavy, so too was his father’s expectations. You’ll make friends, you’ll do your new House proud, I am grateful for the fact that you never once asked me to _not_ take this job opportunity, it’ll be better here, without the memories bogging us down: unsaid statements, promises made in silent vows that the amber-eyed teen knew better than to expect to be true. He had heard similar claims—previously spoken aloud—since he was young, and the soon-to-be Hogwarts student had learned a hard-edged sort of cynicism when he first learned of his mother’s disinheritance from her family.

That cynicism wouldn’t be welcome at this time, however: the new MACUSA and MoM intermediary wanted excitement and hope, anticipation for the year to come; it was easy enough for Stiles to glance over his shoulder to offer his father a bright, open-mouthed grin. Just as easy, as well, to brighten his honeyed gaze with excitement. When someone didn’t _want_ to look further than skin-deep, masks were so very easy to don. Were so very easy to switch between a whole masquerade of them.

“I know, Dad. This is going to be a piece of cake-- _you’re_ going to be the one having to deal with first day jitters,” the teen opted to reply with, reaching up as he spoke to give his father’s wrist an absentminded squeeze. “Dealing with everyone’s British-isms, finding out which breakroom has the best coffee, getting caught up on all of the latest gossip, brushing off your best uniform to suitably impress the ‘ _Chosen One_ ’--“

The Stilinski patriarch rolled his eyes at Stiles’ attempt at his usual brand of humor, and he instead used his hold on his son to bring the teen closer, arm wrapping tightly around Stiles’ shoulders to hug his only child tightly. There were other families out on the platform—the ‘ _Chosen One_ ’’s family included—and similar scenes were being repeated everywhere in the station. But, despite the fact that Noah had had to say good-bye to his only child for an entire year five times previously, this time it felt… different.

Perhaps it was because of their move and the Auror was feeling a bit more protective than before; or perhaps it was because Stiles was being forced to started over completely—new country, new school, new need to make friends: it was a stressful event for an _adult_ , and being forced to deal with all of these changes with no questions asked and a surprising amount of grace… Noah had been genuinely flummoxed by how well Stiles had managed to handle everything so far.

But… eventually, that other shoe had to drop, and the older man worried for his son and the next two years he would spend at Hogwarts.

“You’re going to be amazing, kid,” Noah murmured against the soft fluff of his son’s hair. “It won’t take long before they realize just how lucky they are to have managed to steal you away from Ilvermorny.”

Stiles’ arms tightened around his father at that particular claim, fingers curling in the older man’s robes until his knuckles turned white—but there was nothing he could (or _wanted_ ) to say in reply to that claim. Silence, Stiles had also learned early on, was typically best when it came to certain things.

“Love you,” the teen murmured instead and gave an extra tight squeeze before stepping back; he straightened his shoulders and offered Noah another bright, another anticipatory, another fake grin. “I’ll see you next summer, then. And don’t think that I won’t be checking with Whittle about whether or not you’ve been sticking to your diet.”

The Auror liaison grumbled quietly at that, muttering about traitorous House Elves and sons who were more of a taskmaster than any previous supervisor that Noah had had to deal with—strict and unyielding and able to sniff out any rule breaking in less than a heartbeat.

Still, though, Noah reached out to gently cup his son’s cheek in one hand, marveling at how much the teen had grown from the first time he had seen his child off to school—and how much Stiles had come to resemble his mother.

“Love you, too, son.”

His hand slowly fell away to return at his side, and Noah stepped away so that Stiles could gather his school supplies to head up onto the Hogwarts Express. It was a bittersweet sight, one that usually left the Auror feeling sad and bereft for several days after—but, this time, Noah couldn’t shake the quiet dread that settled within the pit of his stomach: a miasmic, lingering fog of foreboding.

++

Nearly all of the cars were full: Stiles knew that he would be facing this particular issue as a transfer student, but it was still frustrating and isolating to deal with even with all of the mental preparation he had tried for. The first years were slowly grouping together, making new friends and discovering potential Housemates—and yearmates, regardless. There was a sacredness of beginnings, of undiscovered paths with each encounter with one another: who knew what friendships struck on the train would last a lifetime? 

(Stiles could have sworn that he saw Auror Potter's second son striking up a friendship with Lord Malfoy's only heir. Considering the stories that were still told the world over of the Boy-Who-Lived's time at Hogwarts, every household down to the youngest House Elf was familiar with the rivalry that had lasted between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Here, now, though--there was the _potential_ for something new, something different, something stronger.) 

For the other years, however… Students had had months and years to get to know one another, to make those friends that the first years were connecting with: cliques and groups had long ago formed by now, sustained through the test of mutual dormitories and the horrors of mountains of homework.

Stiles would have been shocked to discover a group willing to make room for him, the newcomer—especially in the later years. He was an unknown and, for now, relatively unwanted.

Eventually, the amber-eyed teen settled himself in an empty room in the last car, sprawling haphazardly over one of the plush-lined benches (Why the hell not? He wasn’t taking anyone’s spot by doing so.) to open the book he was currently in the middle of. Kuugeki, sensing Stiles’ mood, made its appearance once the teen was settled and comfortable; it stepped into being from the spirit world to jump up onto the bench that its contractor had claimed as his own. 

The nogitsune nudged Stiles with its snout, using the arctic chill of the snout’s black tip to _encourage_ the teen to shift where it wanted, eventually settling in the crook of Stiles’s neck. Curled up in an ebon-dark ball of matte fur and tarnished silver eyes, the nogitsune finally rested its jaw over the steady pulse of Stiles’ heart to join its contractor in silent reading, eerie ghost eyes flickering over words and paragraphs and pages.

Hours later, when the Trolley Lady had come and gone, Kuugeki shifted in its position to lift its head to trail the edge of its jaw against the line of Stiles’ own, both possessively scentmarking its contractor and offering reassurance for the negative emotions that still roiled being the surface of the teen’s mind.

“Do you remember the conversation you had with Deputy Headmistress Morell in your second year?” the dark kitsune asked as it pressed its cold snout to the hinge of Stiles’ jaw.

Stiles reached up to burrow his fingers in the thick ruff, staring blankly up at the ceiling above them both. “You mean the one about the overwhelming fear that something terrible was going to happen—about hypervigilance and drowning because it’s all just failing reflexes, anyway?”

Kuugeki nipped the teen for the caustic reply, teeth rough enough against the thin skin of Stiles’ throat that the nogitsune managed to draw blood, with the boy flinching at the sudden, unexpected pain. “More so about survival and the agony that comes with it being worth it. Her silly little quote that she gave you at the end of the session.”

The teen’s plush mouth twisted at the memory, amber gaze darkening to a red-flecked mahogany. “You mean when she said _if you’re going through hell, keep going_?”

“I’ve always been partial to spreading the fire. And you’ve always been talented at sparking Fiendfyre to life.”

Stiles tweaked the nogitsune’s ear for that particular comment and the fact that Kuugeki had always been more of a fan of ’fuck it’ and let the world burn than anything else; as obligated as the nogitsune was to Stiles due to the bond… the fox was still a yako: there was no denying its nature for long, no matter how dedicated it was otherwise to the teen. 

“Go back to reading, Kuugeki. We still have a couple more hours before we arrive at Hogwarts.”

++

Stiles spent the entirety of the remainder of the train ride being productive by managing to finish his book—and _also_ spent the entirety of the train ride desperately missing Scott.

He swallowed the loneliness down.

(Because when you’re drowning, you keep your mouth sealed shut until you have no other choice but to gasp for air.)

++

Hogwarts’ Sorting Ceremony was supposed to be a secret, but it hadn’t taken much digging before Stiles had been able to discover what, exactly, determined his new House. He remembered just how disquieting it had felt when the House’s Guardians had evaluated him on the first day of his first year at Ilvermorny, and Stiles wanted to do anything and everything within his power to avoid that feeling again. The lack of control, of agency—it sparked something distant and dangerous within his chest at _knowing_ that he was being judged and, potentially, being found unworthy.

The concern—and its accompanying rage—lingered as Stiles stepped down from the Thestral-drawn carriage, settled within the marrow of his bones even as the teen looked up and up and _up_ at the castle that towered above him. It was so much… larger… than Ilvermorny, and the magic felt deeper—burrowed like the roots of Yggdrasil into the earth’s heart beneath the amber-eyed American’s feet.

There was no point in denying the trepidation and dread: Stiles knew that lying to himself would only cause more harm in the end—no matter how desperately he wished he could deny the current feelings lining the bottom of his stomach and dragging him down.

Shifting to lean back against the solid, warm weight of the Thestral’s neck, the teen closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting his lungs expand to draw in the wild scent of loam and ancient forest, of hidden mysteries and the subtle tang of Darkness: that particular _taste_ of magic had been lighter around Ilvermorny but, here, the air felt nearly… saturated… in it.

Death and war and sacrifice had soaked the land as thoroughly as blood had, and Dark and Light magic traces still lingered in stone and earth and forest. All of it together, combined into a tangled knot of muted colors, buzzed at the base of Stiles’ skull.

The teen exhaled quietly and curled his fingers over the Thestral’s short haired hide, quoting in a whisper to himself: “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.”

The winged horse watched as the teen stepped away to head up the stairs to the Great Hall; it snorted quietly when Stiles was finally out of sight and, only then, began moving towards the carriage stables where Hagrid kept the transports when they were no longer needed.

The magic of Hogwarts quietly shuddered within her foundation as her newest student made his way through her ancient corridors.

++

The Great Hall was truly a work of art: there had been many distinguishing features—sights to proudly boast of—at Ilvermorny, but the sheer _magnitude_ of a magical undertaking that the Great Hall’s ceiling demonstrated… it was both awe-inspiring and terrifying: the time, the effort, the amount of calculations that must have gone into the spell crafting alone… no one other Ravenclaw herself would have been able to attempt such a thing. (Well, attempt and _succeed_ , anyway.)

Stiles was distracted by the slow ebb and flow of the clouds up above, drifting across the sky like the endless, steady pulse of the ocean, and it took several long moments to become aware of the fact that someone had made their way over to him, standing just behind the amber-eyed teen’s shoulder as they waited for Stiles to finally notice their presence. When that finally occurred, the American transfer startled, limbs going akimbo, when the teen turned and nearly plowed straight into an unyielding wall that was currently masquerading as a professor’s _chest_.

“Distracted?” the professor asked, amused smirk curling the corner of his mouth into something sharp and predatory; the grip that the older man used to keep Stiles from flailing backwards and falling to the ground was shockingly firm—the teen was awkward and the chaotic motion of his arms and legs would have taken down anyone else, and yet: the blue-eyed man managed to remain steady and still.

“…I was thinking about how much Arithmancy must have gone into its creation,” Stiles admitted once he was once more flat on his feet, though the teen did nothing to stave the temptation to glance upwards yet again: it truly was a terrifying piece of spellwork; the imagery of the night sky was crystal clear, no fogging or fading even though the foundation had been laid centuries before.

“I suppose that that answers which House you’ll be going into, then,” the professor replied with instead, smirk deepening just the smallest bit; glancing at the professor from the corner of his bright gaze, Stiles couldn’t help but think that there must have been some betting going on amongst the teachers regarding his placement—transfer students couldn’t have been all that common, after all. And he supposed that those very same professors had to find entertainment _somewhere_.

The teen didn’t bother to reply, however, remaining unusually silent. The man eventually continued when it was made clear that Stiles wasn’t planning on offering up a comment or two to the assessment, and he gestured towards the front of the Great Hall. Over the heads of the seated students, the American teen could see the line of first years filing in from a side chamber, faces pale with fright and worry and excitement all. 

“Time to get gawked at by the rest of the student body,” the professor said, wicked amusement making his light blue gaze gleam: there was little to no sympathy in those eyes, and Stiles’ mouth twisted: _Nothing new there_ , he thought.

Aloud, amber gaze darkening as the delight of his inspection slowly faded away, Stiles turned and began to make his way towards the Head Table, tossing a comment over the cloak-covered curve of his shoulder: “Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him who first cries ‘Hold! Enough!’.”

Peter Hale startled slightly at hearing the quote, staring after the teen who strode past tables filled with his peers, fellow students all shifting to gawk at him; the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor found himself… _intrigued_. How was it that a transfer student from _America_ , a country whose Muggle and Magical division rules were amongst the strictest in the _world_ , had so casually managed to quote Shakespeare at him?

Perhaps it would be wise to keep an eye on the teen—at least until he proved boring, anyway.

++

The first years were Sorted before Stiles and, while the teen understood _why_ that was so… Stiles wished, instead, that the professors had allowed him to go first so that he could get this over and done with. His own Sorting at Ilvermorny still was an uncomfortable memory—even years later—and having to go through _another_ Sorting—well, it was something that Stiles would have been happy enough to enough. The dread was a heavy weight in both his stomach and upon his shoulders, and the slow-creeping sense of foreboding was nausea-inducing.

Stiles could _feel_ how his hands gently tremored, though his robes’ sleeves were thankfully long enough to hide that telltale trembling.

“Stilinski, M… Mieczysław!” Deputy Headmaster Creevey called out, stumbling—understandably, really—over Stiles’ first name.

It was so unusual actually _hearing_ his real first name—something that hadn’t been genuinely used or actually _applied_ to him in years. The unfamiliarity was uncomfortable, no matter the fact that it was his own name, and the honey-eyed teen wrinkled his nose in distaste even as he stepped up to the stool where the Sorting Hat waited. “Please, for all that’s holy, just give up on my first name and call me _Stiles_ ,” the transfer student ordered the professor and pitched his voice so that the others seated at the Head Table could also hear it, as well. Better to offer the alternate now—one that he had given to himself, as well--before anyone attempted to mangle his name while calling roll each and every day.

A moment more and then darkness overcame Stiles’ vision as the Sorting Hat settled over his head.

 _A transfer student? I only get a few of those every century_ , the Hat mused to both itself and to the teen, both submerged enough—and distant enough, as well—to watch the minnow-bright flash of Stiles’ thoughts dart shiningly through the murky composition of his mind. The student could _feel_ the Hat’s fascination with the flickering distraction and constant bombardment of Stiles mind, surprised when the thought-minnows went stock still for a moment and the construct of the boy’s mind went razor-sharp in clarity before yet again descending into chaos.

It was an absent gesture, and the Sorting Hat plucked one of Stiles’ thoughts from the teen’s head, similar to how a bear managed to scoop a spawning salmon up and out of its home river: so, too, did Stiles feel himself be inspected by an alien, intelligent awareness.

 _…oh. **Oh**_ , the Hat suddenly murmured, and Stiles felt it as another thought-minnow was caught and examined. There was just the brief sliver of memory, a there-and-gone image that hinted towards what memory the Sorting Hat had managed to find, and the teen _snarled_ in his mind as the sound echoed like rumbling thunder, distant but warning of the storm to come.

 _That was **private**_ , the boy snapped and broke the Hat’s connection to the memory with a sharp spike of his magic.

_I would normally apologize for coming across such a memory, Mr. Stilinski: I was created to only look upon a child’s surface thoughts and weigh them against their instinctive character traits, but your mind is very… different… than most I have come across—it buzzes and flickers and then, suddenly, goes deathly-still. It is so very easy to fall deeper than anticipated, or what I am normally allowed to do so. However… I would normally apologize, but I cannot in this case. Viewing that memory gave me the knowledge I needed to Sort you accurately, Mr. Stilinski._

_Please. Let it be Ravenclaw_ , Stiles quietly requested, mental presence suddenly subdued as all of the chaotic energy of his thoughts froze and sharpened once more as the sense of dread yet again returned.

 _You know better than that, Mr. Stilinski_ , the Hat responded gently, surprisingly kind as its foreign mental presence carefully brushed against the teen’s own.

“SLYTHERIN!” the Hat cried out, its shout echoing through the silent Great Hall. _Be kind, Mr. Stilinski_ , the Hat murmured to Stiles within his shell-shocked mind, one last request as the Deputy Headmaster began to lift the Sorting Hat from the newly-appointed Slytherin’s head. _Remember to be kind in your cruelty._

Stiles stood once the Hat was completely clear, neutral and blank pureblood mask firmly in place. Back straight-- _Your manners and masks must always be impeccable, Mieczysław… my little Mischief. Beyond reproach, constantly, or they will judge you for it and you will be found wanting._ \--the teen brushed his fingers over the green and silver tie that now lay around his neck, and he descended the stairs towards the table that was filled with watchful eyes and few and far-between claps for his admittance.

So focused on the eyes straight ahead, Stiles didn’t feel the weight of a glacial-blue gaze settle upon him as the teen made his way to his new House table.

::fin::


End file.
